She headed downstairs and greeted her guest with a kiss on the cheek. “Won’t you join us in the dining room?” she asked Cándido, concealing her displeasure under the veneer of politeness. “We were about to eat.”
“I wouldn’t want to be a bother,” Cándido said, which of course he would be, but courtesy demanded that she smile and assure him it was no problem, that this was his home, that she was delighted to see him.
They sat down. Perla carefully draped her napkin across her lap. The main course was arroz a la tumbada, and the scent of shrimp and clams wafted through the dining room as Rita served everyone.
Perla looked at her husband across the table and critically analyzed his features, concluding that the lack of mustache altered his face in ways she definitely did not approve of. Not only did he seem less sophisticated, but the lack of facial hair made him look younger.
It was not as if Ulises seemed old when he went unshaven, but he had a certain gravitas that was now lacking. She wanted every knickknack in her house in its place, every dish seasoned her way, and her husband dressed and presented to suit her tastes. This change felt, to her, like a small act of rebellion. It reminded her, irritatingly, of her niece’s mischief and muted defiance.
She looked in the direction of Inés, but the girl was eating her food without any complaint, quiet and well-behaved. Her silences sometimes angered Perla, for they had a pointed quality to them.
Perla ate without enthusiasm, thinking that the inhabitants of Puerco Ahogado would gossip about Ulises’s new look.
No doubt some people will point out he seems closer to thirty than forty,she thought.And they will joke about this, I’m sure they will.
“By the way, I heard a funny story that a man was looking for you earlier today, Mr. Linares,” Cándido said as he reached for his glass, interrupting her thoughts. “A detective.”
Ulises nodded. “I spoke to him. He was looking for a man who lived in my same guesthouse back in Mexico City. Apparently, the fellow owes people money. But I don’t know him, and I have no idea where he lives.”
“Not a friend of yours, then?”
“No. Merely another lodger.”
“You didn’t mention someone came here today,” Perla said.
“You just returned from your friend’s house, my darling, I was going to tell you this evening, but Mr. Sotomayor has brought it up before I could. He’s informed about everything that happens in town.”
“Hardly. Someone mentioned it in passing, that is all,” Cándido said, waving the comment away.
But later, when they retired to the office to chat, he brought up the incident again. “Don’t you find it troubling that a detective spoke to your husband today? He can’t have been associating with decent people back in Mexico City.”
“He said he wasn’t friends with the man they were looking for.”
“That’s what he says. You don’t know much about him, after all. It’s not like he’s a resident of Puerco Ahogado, with a history to his name and a solid reputation. He’s not a Novo or a Sotomayor.”
No, he wasn’t, although that was partly what had appealed to her about him. That he was different, new, and that he didn’t know her as much as she didn’t know him. To the men of Puerco Ahogado she wasMiss Inclán, the spinster. Once she’d been placed in this category, she was not allowed to be anything else. Romance, adventure, they were denied her, first by her family, by her stern father, then by the town itself.
Sometimes, in secret, she had been able to escape these shackles, but only when she shed her name. But she did not wish to think about those times, about anonymous encounters in the port, or the liaison she’d cultivated with a married man under the cover of the dark.
“He’s my husband now,” she reminded Cándido.
“He’s a stranger and might be the friend of thieves. A thief himself,” he said, and took out his pistol, which he placed upon the desk. “Your father gave me this as a gift for my thirtieth birthday, do you remember? I think you ought to have it from now on.”
“I do remember, and I wouldn’t know what to do with a weapon. A lady doesn’t hunt or shoot.”
“I’d sleep better knowing you’re protected.”
“You’re being silly,” she told him, and shoved the gun in a drawer. She’d take it to her room later, where she might lock it away in her desk. She did not need Fito accidentally grabbing the weapon and shooting himself in the foot, which the boy was liable to do.
“I’m cautious.”
“You’re an idiot,” she snapped at him. She did not like it when people questioned her judgment, and to question her choice of husband struck her as the epitome of rudeness.
However, that night, as she brushed her hair and looked at her husband’s reflection in the mirror above her vanity, she wondered about his provenance. Ulises was lying in her bed, idly thumbing through a book, and she watched him with careful eyes.
She dictated the rhythms of the house, the chores and schedules everyone must follow, and he abided by her commands when it came to lovemaking. He came to her room at night and had sex with her when she wanted it, decamping to his own bed afterward, which was the proper way a couple should live.
She liked him in his pajamas with the two top buttons undone, showing an expanse of his chest, sitting and awaiting her orders. But as she looked at him now and ran the comb through her hair, she wondered about the exact category of man her husband belonged to.